


Same Old

by orphan_account



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Drabble, Infidelity, M/M, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-13
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2019-04-22 11:43:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14307921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “Alright, Captain Planet, let’s go.”





	Same Old

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this some months ago, never got around to post it.  
> Take a fucking look, babes.

 (…)

“Oh, fuck off, of course aliens fucking exist, are you serious?” Jonny says, leaning forward abruptly. Half of his wine has already spilled over. His hair is frizzled from the humidity, sitting sloppy on his forehead, and he’s got a big red stain on the sleeve of his white shirt. Patrick bites down a smile, hiding it behind the rim of his beer. “You think, _what_ , in the whole fucking universe we got the only planet with life in it? Don’t be stupid, eh? That’s such—that’s such Middle Ages bullshit, we’re not fucking special—”

“We’re not special?” Seabrook interrupts. “Not even the team?”

“ _No_ , I mean, of course the team—” he hiccups and Patrick bites his mouth harder “the team is fucking special. Fucking specialest—most special team in the fucking NHL!”

The table hoots, some men bang their fists on the wood. Jonny smiles for a second, and then blinks, seemingly finding his line of thought again. He zeros on Saader for some reason, maybe because he still thinks Saader’s obligated to give a shit about what he says. “What I meant, I meant _we_ as in _we_ , the human race, you know?” Saader nods vigorously, bless his heart. “We’re fucking parasites on this planet, man, nothing more than that. We don’t belong here. You know who belongs here?” Saader shakes his head. “Mother Nature.”

“Oh, _Jesus Christ_ ” Duncs murmurs next to Patrick, and Seabrook snorts.

“Well, Toes-z, I really fucking hope you reincarnate as a rock in your next life” Sharpy says, and the entire room erupts in laughter. Jonny rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, like he wouldn’t find a way to bitch about the rock race, too” Patrick quips, picking up his phone to pretend he’s checking his notifications. Crow slaps a hand on his shoulder and starts honest-to-God wheezing. It wasn’t that funny, but it’s still worth it for the laser stare he can feel burning a fucking hole through him.

“You know what, Kaner?”

Patrick looks up, giving Jonny his worst close-mouthed smile. “What, Jon?”

“I’m gonna piss, and you can go fuck yourself” Jonny declares, and downs the rest of his wine. He stands up too fast, throwing his napkin down on the table like a fucking distressed house wife. The boys yell after him, growing especially loud when he starts swaying dangerously to the left.

“Don’t forget to stash your urine for fuel” Sharpy calls, waving an empty beer bottle at him.

“I’ll stash your fucking urine for—” Jonny trips on the rug and goes flat against one his huge potted plants in the corner. “Fuck”

Patrick purses his lips. He considers leaving his beer on the table but decides to take it with him, especially because they’re approaching that drunk stage where they’ll snatch all the alcohol available within three feet. And this is Patrick’s third beer, which means it’s his last. He gives a short squeeze to Crow’s hand on his shoulder and gets up. “Alright, Captain Planet, let’s go.”

(…)

They never had a problem shitting, pissing and puking in front of each other. Maybe because all those years they roomed together kind of blur boundaries a little. If he wanted to brush his teeth and Jonny was taking forever and a fucking day to take a dump, he’d just barge in and do it. Jonny’s a fucking pig when it comes to shit like that, so he never bitched more than the usual amount. Patrick’s seen him do grosser things in front of complete strangers.

Patrick, though, doesn’t really have that kind of ease with anyone else. So, whatever. He missed sitting on the countertop, tapping absently on his phone while Jonny did his business. He knows it’s strange.

He knows.

(…)

Jonny doesn’t even blink when Patrick follows him inside the bathroom. He just pulls his pants down and goes to town.

“Christ, dude, no one was holding you prisoner back there” Patrick says, jumping on the counter. Jonny laughs. The tips of Patrick’s shoes barely reach the ground. Fucking Jonny with his fucking sky high furniture. Patrick watches his shoulder muscles spasm under his shirt. He’s _that_ drunk. Patrick hadn’t seen him get twitchy drunk in a long ass time.

“I was enjoying the conversation. It was good.”

Patrick snorts and sets his beer by his side. “It was shit” He says. “You gotta get a new hobby, man, the hippie charm is gonna wear out fast if you keep being a dick about it.” It gets too quiet too quickly. Maybe Patrick shouldn’t have said it like that.

“It’s not—it’s not a fucking _hobby_ for me.” Jonny spits. Patrick forgot, twitchy drunkenness also comes with an extra dose of sensitivity. “And I’m not a fucking dick about it." 

“I _know_ that—”

Jonny pulls his boxers up. The elastic makes a whip sound against his skin. “No, you don’t know, Kaner. You laugh at me, you all do, but at least I give a shit about something other than myself” he says, and that one irks Patrick a little.

“Right, right, I’m sorry, I forgot you built your career on being a fucking activist” he sneers. “How many trees did you hug for that Tesla, again?”

Jonny stops halfway through yanking up his jeans and glares at Patrick over his shoulder. “Fuck off, you asshole. What the fuck are you even doing in here, eh?” 

Patrick doesn’t have an answer for that he can express verbally without wanting to dig a hole and jump into it, so he shuts his mouth. He stares back, as evenly as he possibly can, and Jonny must work that out in his head, somehow, because he stops scowling and his face softens. He finishes buttoning his jeans, his movements’ jerky but weirdly coordinated. Talented freak. “Right” Jonny murmurs.

“Don’t forget to wash your hands, Captain Planet, I’m sure Mother Nature won’t spank you over basic hygiene” Patrick bites out before he can think better of it, and Jonny gives him another bitchy glance. This one is all act, though. It sits well in Patrick’s chest that he can still tell the difference, and he smiles. Jonny smiles, too. He’s still smiling when he comes near the sink and turns on the tap. Patrick thinks about getting off the counter for a second, but then Jonny’s already right there, and he doesn’t want to. His left thigh is pressed against Jonny’s hip, and that’s fine, that’s fucking _fine_.

“You’re funny tonight.” Jonny says, still soft and quiet in his big, tall bathroom. He’s got a dimple digging into his left cheek, moving as he talks, and Patrick can’t help staring at it. Then Jonny’s smile widens, and Patrick stares at the curve of his mouth instead. “I like it when you’re like this, Kaner.”

Patrick blinks and looks down at his lap. He stars peeling off the label of his beer, face growing warmer. “I’m always like this” he says, just for the sake of it, because they both know he isn’t. Then again, neither is Jonny. He sees three of Jonny’s fingers touch the neck of the bottle, and snorts. He tilts it towards the left, waiting for Jonny to take it off his hands, which Jonny does, but only to set it on the counter next to him. The motion makes his arm go around Patrick’s chest like a seatbelt.  

Patrick’s pulse picks up. His heart’s hammering against his ribcage, so fucking strong he’s irrationally scared that Jonny will hear it. He swallows. Jonny gets one hand under his chin, tilts it up, and Patrick’s met with Jonny’s gaze, dark, familiar, his nose and his red cheeks. His breath stinks of red wine. _God_ , Patrick should hate that shit. Instead, he feels his eyelids become heavier, his palms sweating against the countertop’s marble.

“You’re…” Jonny mumbles, lower than the rumble of a motor. Patrick licks at his lower lip, slowly, and feels Jonny exhale sharply against his skin.

“ _I’m_ ” Patrick starts, before Jonny exhales again and plants one on him, square on the mouth, like it’s the easiest fucking thing in the world. Maybe not the easiest, but certainly the most unsurprising. Patrick’s eyes fall shut. Jonny’s hand migrates to the back of his neck, squeezing tight. His hand is still wet, and when Patrick opens his mouth, his tongue is wet, too.

Patrick pulls Jonny close by the belt straps of his jeans, until Jonny’s slotted between his thighs, and he can draw up his legs around Jonny’s waist, grind their dicks together. He hears Jonny choke back a sound as he licks and licks into Patrick’s mouth. The wine tastes rich, bittersweet on his tongue. It all processes into a big chant of _YesYesYes_ that’s drumming its way across Patrick’s middle right to the tips of his fingers. Jonny pulls back after a minute, but barely enough for them to breathe, his lips half an inch away from the corner of Patrick’s mouth. “Missed you. Missed this.” Jonny says, breathing heavy.

Ah, twitchy drunk. Extra dose of sensitivity. Patrick smiles despite the corniness of it. “I’m always here, baby.” he says, voice dripping its most obnoxious tone of corny. If Jonny hears it, he’s too out of it to care.

“I miss this _all the time_ , Kaner. I—I never know—I never fucking know if you want or not, because you never fucking _talk_ , you never say anything” he trails off. His eyelashes are so dark against his skin. Patrick’s hands slide up Jonny’s back, and he wonders if he should take this drunk babbling seriously or not. Probably not. Jonny rubs their noses together, and it’s pathetic how that one gesture makes Patrick’s heart topple over itself. He thrusts up his pelvis again, slowly, and Jonny turns his head to kiss his cheek, and then the tip of his nose, and his mouth, again, and again. Just tiny pecks, little teenage-like smooches that make Patrick’s toes curl, his back arch, his dick fill.

“You’ll talk.” Jonny growls, almost angry, in-between kisses. “You’ll _talk_.”  

Patrick breathes out a long, broken, “Yeah, baby” and suddenly Jonny has him pressed flush against the mirror, popping open the first button of his pants, and Patrick’s so fucking dizzy with love he doesn’t even care when his knee hits the beer bottle, and sends it spiraling down the floor.

(…)

When they walk back to the living room it’s awkward. They’ve been doing this for so many years, and are still met with tight smiles and fleeting glances, every single time. Patrick sits on his chair, Jonny takes the one on the opposite side of the table. There’s a lull in the conversation while they sit, but it doesn’t last, because Sharpy immediately asks about his biofuel, and they all gladly jump on the opportunity to restart that bullshit.

Jonny sputters, Patrick watches. Same old.

(…)                   

An hour or so later they’ll get up, pat each other’s backs, say their goodbyes. Patrick’s hands won’t linger on Jonny’s shoulders, Jonny’s eyes won’t linger on him. Patrick will drive home, take a shower, jerk off, hard, panting into the wall, with the memories of two hours before burning hot in his mind. He’ll get into bed, let his girl hug him from behind and kiss him where she knows he’s ticklish.

She’ll ask, “Did you have a good time?”

He’ll answer, “The best.” and mean it.


End file.
